


the twice-burnt man and the arsonist

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: And also having some existential angst because of course he is!, Fratt Week, M/M, Matt basically telling Frank his life story, Prompt: Fire, some blood but not a ton of detailed description of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 08:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24468160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: “Are you going to ask me?” He finally demands.“Ask you… what? You got somethin’ to tell me?” Frank sounds honestly puzzled, as if he hadn’t had any particular questions preying on his mind.“People always ask,” Matt says, hearing the frustration in his voice, “so let’s just get it over with. Ask me.”“Ask you what? If you’re single?” Frank teases.Matt feels himself blush a little. “No—about—“ He gestures at his eyes.
Relationships: Frank Castle & Matt Murdock, Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 8
Kudos: 330
Collections: Fratt Week





	the twice-burnt man and the arsonist

Frank’s known who he is for awhile—both sides of him, and he’s known that they are one and the same.

But he hasn’t asked the question that Foggy and Karen had both asked as soon as they found out. Elektra hadn’t asked, but in retrospect, she had insider information from Stick, so no wonder she wasn’t particularly curious about his blindness. Claire was different, too. She’d known the Devil before she met Matt Murdock, and _blind vigilante is also an attorney_ was an easier sell than _blind attorney is also a vigilante_.

Frank hasn’t asked, and while it’s a relief to not have to go through it again for the ten thousandth time, it also leaves Matt with a feeling of anticipation, as if the other shoe is going to drop, any time Frank inhales to speak.

They’re scoping out the base where the Russians are tentatively starting to rebuild, growing their numbers, surreptitiously arranging for influxes of capital, sneaking into drug territories quietly, as if the Chinese won’t find out. They’ve been sitting on the rooftop opposite the base for twenty minutes, and Matt can’t take it anymore.

“Are you going to ask me?” He finally demands.

“Ask you… what? You got somethin’ to tell me?” Frank sounds honestly puzzled, as if he hadn’t had any particular questions preying on his mind.

“People always ask,” Matt says, hearing the frustration in his voice, “so let’s just get it over with. Ask me.”

“Ask you what? If you’re single?” Frank teases, “everyone you meet thinks you’re irresistible, and I’m the first one who hasn’t fallen under your spell, that’s what you mean, right?”

Matt feels himself blush a little. “No—about—“ He gestures at his eyes. “Usually it goes are you really blind, were you born blind, how do you do what you do, how did you lose your sight, what do you wish you could see, what do you miss the most—that kind of stuff.”

Frank sets his binoculars down and shifts a little, turning his body towards Matt, as if eye contact means anything to him.

“I’ve seen you without the mask or your glasses on,” he says quietly, “your eyes, they don’t track. Pupils don’t dilate. You’re blind. People really ask you if you’re _actually_ blind?”

Matt laughs, a little bitter. “People who know what I do at night, they do. Foggy did. We shared a room for four years and an apartment for another three, and he still asked me if I was even blind, when he found out. Karen came right out with it—first night we met, she stayed at my place, Fisk was after her, and she asked me all the standard questions. How did it happen, what do you remember, what do you miss, that kind of thing.”

“That’s pretty fucked up. Not Karen—but Nelson, he should’ve known better.”

Matt shrugs. “He was angry,” he admits, remembering that morning, laying on his sofa and not remembering how he’d gotten there, hearing Foggy’s anger and his pain and his fear and his frustration and his betrayal in his voice.

“People say dumb shit when they’re angry,” Frank agrees.

“Yeah, well. So, are you gonna ask or what?”

“Uh, do you want me to? Sounds like it kinda annoys you, figured you’d get tired of explaining.”

“I do,” Matt says quietly. It’s a different sort of weight from the fatigue of being Daredevil, being the lone idiot trying to turn back the tide of crime in the city.

Well, not alone, anymore. Now there are two idiots out there, trying to fight the tide.

He clears his throat. “I do get tired of it. But once I’ve done it, it’s out of the way. You haven’t asked, so I keep expecting it. It’s like—Chinese water torture. I keep waiting for that next drop to fall.”

“You’re a fucking drama queen, Red,” Frank mutters, “but fine. You’re blind. Were you always?”

“No, I wasn’t born blind. God—you’re going to laugh when I tell you.”

“I’m going to laugh?” Frank sounds offended. “You think I’d _laugh_ at a guy losing his sight? Jesus, I’m not _that_ much of a dick!”

“No—not the fact that it happened, just— _how_ it happened.”

“How’d it happen then? Did you forget to wear goggles in chem lab or something?”

Matt shakes his head. “No—I was out with my dad. He stopped in to grab something from a store, I told him I’d wait outside. The weather was really nice, you know? And I didn’t want to go inside, wanted to feel the sun on my skin.”

Frank’s uneasy—knows what it led to, is waiting for the pain to appear in the pretty picture Matt’s painting for him.

“There was a guy, crossing the road. He was old, so he was walking slow, y’know? And this truck—the brakes must’ve failed or something, it came at him, backwards. I didn’t even think about it. I just ran over and pushed him out of the way. The truck, it was carrying chemicals. I could tell you all of them, your standard hydrochloric acid—dilute, thank God, or I wouldn’t have made it to the hospital, nitric, ammonia, carbonic, a bunch of different hydroxides—weak, thank fuck—sulfates, phosphates, some complex metal ion complexes in solution. Some other, less conventional shit. I had an obsession with it, in college, took all sorts of chemistry courses, so I’d know exactly what happened, the fucking molecular structures of the shit that ruined my life.”

“Why the _fuck_ would I _laugh_ at that?” Frank asks gruffly.

Matt shrugs. “It’s kind of an altar boy thing to do, isn’t it? Push an old guy out of the way and take the hit instead?”

“I guess, yeah. But you were a kid, you weren’t thinking. Kids are like that, they just _are_ , they just _do_. Kids that are selfish are just selfish, kids that are selfless—kids like you—they’re just selfless. You can train an adult to throw himself into the line of fire, y’know. But kids just are what they are.”

“Yeah. My dad came running down the street to see what was happening, shoved everyone out of the way, and he got to me, held me. The last thing I ever saw was his face.”

He sighs.

“In a way, I’m kind of grateful.”

“The _fuck_ for?”

“That he got there in time? That I got to see his face one more time? If he’d been two minutes later, I would’ve been with strangers—none of them even held my hand. The last thing I would’ve seen would have meant nothing, but instead I got to see the most important person in the world.”

Frank goes quiet, processing, and Matt lets him, doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. Frank picks up the binoculars, stares through them halfheartedly even though Matt knows nobody’s gone into or come out of the building since he started talking.

He gives Frank another moment, fiddling with the binoculars.

“Are you gonna ask about the rest?” he prompts.

“Not tonight,” Frank says shortly. “Got enough to chew on.”

\---

“What did it feel like?” Frank asks, something that few people ever ask. They’re at a restaurant, eating dinner. It’s almost nice, almost peaceful, as they sit over pasta and wine.

Of course, the restaurant is owned by the head of the Italian mafia, who’s sitting in a corner with a bunch of his cronies, conferring about his plans to take over the heroin market, expanding from cocaine.

“What?” Matt asks distractedly. He’s listening to their conversation, but that does make him and Frank look like they’re on a date that has gone spectacularly wrong. Frank’s got the right idea—they should at least _attempt_ conversation.

“When it happened, when the chemicals were in your eyes. What did it feel like?”

“It burned. It was like my eyes were on fire—the chemicals covered me, got into my nose, my mouth, my ears—my whole face was on fire, but my eyes were the worst. I watched my dad’s face fade away and I—I hoped, that it would come back, but it never did.”

“So, when you open your eyes, is it just black? Like a movie screen before things start playing?”

“Haven’t been to the movies in a few years now,” Matt says lightly, sensing Frank’s wince. “But no, it’s all red. It’s like—imagine if the world was on fire, and you were in the middle of it—I can see shapes, sometimes, but sometimes I can’t, everything’s just a blur, all red and orange.”

“So when I call you Red—“

“It suits me, in more ways than one.”

\---

He’s perched on the floor, stitching Frank up on his sofa, chattering to keep him conscious.

“What happened after?” Frank asks through gritted teeth as Matt sinks the needle into his skin again. “After the accident, what happened?”

Nobody has ever asked about this part. They jump from sighted kid with a dad to perfectly-adjusted blind orphan with no speed bumps in between.

“I was in the hospital. My dad stayed with me the whole time. One of the nurses brought in an extra cot, set it right next to mine, they had all my lines going on one side, and he slept on the other. I used to wake up screaming, and he’d be there every time, telling me where I was, why my eyes burned, why I couldn’t see, calming me down. Holding me. The epithelium in my mouth and nose was just... _gone_. I couldn’t taste anything for a week, but the mouth heals quickly and my taste buds grew back. It hurt to breathe for awhile, so they kept me on pretty heavy drugs. I didn’t realize how much my senses had been amplified until I got home and got off the opioids.”

Frank doesn’t say anything, but his good leg shifts, shin pressing against Matt’s side.

“The apartment was always messy before—overnight, the place was spic and span. Not a damn thing out of place, because I tripped over it, or walked into it. I had bruises on my shins, on my arms. My dad—he’d hustled even before, fighting hard to keep food on the table, to keep the lights on. He was a boxer, but he picked up part time gigs on the side, I was at home or with my grandma a lot.”

“But after, it got even harder. We had my medical bills, and he wanted me to study, wanted me to make something of myself, so we had to buy Braille books, adaptive equipment, so I wouldn’t fall behind.”

“Didn’t they give you some money? The truck company, the chemical company?”

“We didn’t have enough for a lawyer, and my dad—he didn’t know what his kid’s eyes were worth, y’know? How do you put a number on that? They offered us fifty thousand , which would’ve gone straight to the hospital. He negotiated up to seventy-five, all on his own. He wasn’t—he wasn’t used to asking for money, and he didn’t like feeling like a charity case. So we came back with seventy-five, most of which still went to the hospital. The rest went to the landlord or the power company. My dad wasn’t working, hadn’t worked since the accident, stayed with me until I could navigate again. By the time we got the bills squared away, we had enough for food, my cane and a Braille reader, so I could read stuff on the computer at the library. He’d sit there and type the alphabet out, help me learn it. He liked to type up swears, just to make me laugh, or funny sentences or stupid jokes.”

Frank grunts, as much of an acknowledgement as Matt expects, given the length and depth of the laceration on his thigh that he’s currently sewing up.

“Augmented senses? That’s how you do it, then?” He’s really making an effort, even though he’s lost a fair bit of blood and probably wants to pass out.

“Stay the fuck awake, Castle,” Matt barks in his best drill sergeant voice.

“Yessir,” Frank murmurs, hand coming down to lay on Matt’s forearm. “Senses?”

“Yeah. Once my mouth and nose healed and I got off the drugs, I was able to taste things I’d never tasted before. Blood in the air, Chinese food from down the street. I started hearing everything, too, every car in a three block radius. Sirens would have me catatonic on the floor. I started sleeping in my dad’s bed with him, because when I was panicking, he was the only thing that could calm me down again.”

“Sounds like a good man, your dad,” Frank says quietly, hand squeezing Matt’s forearm.

“He was. He was the best dad I could’ve ever asked for.”

“He’d be proud o’you.”

Matt blinks away the tears that are welling up, because he has a job to do, and though crying won’t exactly make him less efficient at stitches—since he isn’t using his eyes to begin with, it _will_ make Frank think he’s a pussy.

“I—“ his voice wavers a little bit, but he steadies it somehow. “I, uh, I hope so.”

\---  
  


“Hey— _Matt_ , stay awake. That is an _order_ , Murdock, stay awake or I’ll tell Nelson how much of a pussy you are,” Frank barks.

Matt keeps his eyes open, lilting over to the couch, one of the few pieces of furniture in Frank’s current safe house.

Frank takes his arm and yanks him over to the mattress instead, and Matt collapses into it without putting up a fight.

“You stay awake, Red, you stay awake, or I _swear to God_ —“

“Thought you didn’ believe ‘nymore,” Matt slurs. He pauses, a thought arising. “Gonna ruin th’mattress.”

“Do I _look_ like I give a shit about the goddamn _mattress_?” Frank growls.

“Huh,” Matt says, the closest thing he can manage to laughter. “Dunno. Can’—can’ see ya.”

“Tell me something else. You—after the accident, after the settlement, tell me something else. You told me how you went blind, how your senses compensate. But how did you learn to fight like that? Just knowing where people are doesn’t make you a good fighter.”

“Dad died.” Matt says simply, “Orphanage took me—grandma was too old.”

“How did he die?”

“Shot in th’head, wouldn’t throw a fight. Wan’ed—wan’ed me to be proud o’him.”

Frank’s hands still, but only for a moment, and then they’re continuing to move, stitching him back together, twitching towards the burner to call Claire.

“Don’,” Matt pleads, “don’ call her. She’s happier wi’out me.”

“If you try to be a goddamn martyr _one more time_ , I’ll put a bullet in your skull myself,” Frank snarls, “if you get worse, I’m calling her, and you don’t get a say.”

“Won’t,” Matt promises, feeling tired. “Sleep?”

“No. No sleep. Tell me about the orphanage. The nuns train you up?”

“Huh,” Matt manages again, at the thought. “Nah. Dad—made it quiet. Listened to him, smelled him. He—he made it quiet. When he died, I couldn’ do ‘nything—heard everything, smelled everything, tasted everything. Nearly lost my mind. Nuns—brought a guy in, blind, like me, to help. He was the one who trained me.”

“So you were trained by a blind guy who the nuns just happened to find?”

Matt shrugs.

“Do that again and I’ll slit your throat,” Frank threatens, trying to staunch a new wave of blood flowing out of his wound.

“Ninja. Trained me. Wan’ed me to fight in ‘is war. Wan’ed me to kill, but I couldn’t. Loved ‘im, but he—he didn’ wan’ a kid. Wan’ed a soldier. Left me.”

Frank curses under his breath.

“Would you do it again?” he asks.

“Take th’knife? ‘Course,” Matt says thoughtlessly.

But that isn’t the answer Frank was looking for. In fact, it makes him furious, makes his fingers tense and his heart race and his breath huff out of his mouth.

“You pushed the old man outta the way of the truck. Would you do it again?”

Matt doesn’t have an answer.

“Gonna pass out now,” he informs Frank, “sorry.”

Frank slaps him on the face, Matt’s cheek burning from the impact. “ _Don’t_.”

Matt frowns at him. “Hurts,” he complains plaintively.

“I know, I know it does, I’ll get you some painkillers as soon as I get through with these stitches—“

“ _Face_ hurts,” Matt mutters.

“Don’t be a baby. God, the way you bitch about paper cuts and little bruises and yet don’t say anything about goddamn _knife wounds_ or fucking _bullet holes_ —it drives me fucking crazy,” Frank rants.

“Good voice,” Matt mumbles appreciatively. He’s always liked the deep rumble of Frank’s baritone, the way he can feel the sound of it vibrating through the air if he’s close enough to him.

“Yeah?” Frank’s heart eases up a little. _Happy_ , Matt thinks drowsily. Happi _er_ , anyway. Pleased.

“Mm. Can’ stay ‘wake, Frank, sorry—“ Matt’s eyes finally close.

He can hear more of that good voice, angry and demanding and desperate, fading as he sinks deeper into unconsciousness.

\---  
  


He wakes up in Frank Castle’s bed.

“Mornin’, sunshine. Breakfast?”

Frank’s never called him sunshine before. Who does he think Matt is? Matt reaches next to him, half-expecting to find a half-sleeping Frank next to him. Unconsciousness would explain it—he probably doesn’t remember his wife is gone, is probably offering to make her breakfast.

But he’s alone, has been for awhile, going by the cold sheets.

“Uh, Frank, it’s just me,” he says cautiously.

“Yeah, I know who you are.” Frank’s heart says _truth_. Matt wonders if it is, though, wonders if Frank _really_ knows who he is, what he is.

He thinks about it, skin enjoying the warm sunlight pouring through the window as he lets his senses fan out and tell him about his environment. Little portable cooktop, the smell of rich, dark coffee, book next to the mattress and papers on the table. At this point, he’s told Frank he hasn’t even told Foggy, like that he’d slept in his dad’s bed after the accident, the way he’d dragged Matt to the library to practice Braille, in those early days when the streets were still overwhelming but the quiet of the library was just barely tolerable.

“Y’want breakfast or what?” Frank repeats, getting up and walking over to him.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, breakfast, that would be good,” Matt agrees, mind still caught up in memories of his dad’s voice, of his scent, of the way he’d scrubbed at Matt’s eyes desperately after he’d realized, only to find out it was too late.

_Dad, it burns, it burns—I can’t see, I CAN’T SEE_ —

“Where are you, Red? Where’s your head at, ‘cause it ain’t here,” Frank says gently, sitting down next to him on the bed.

“Sorry. It’s just been awhile, since I thought about it all. The accident, Dad, Stick… I’m guessing it’s not a great story to hear. One shitty thing after another.”

Frank shrugs. “Kid loses his sight saving an old man’s life, inspires his old man to stop throwing fights, and grows up out of an orphanage to become an Ivy League-educated lawyer by day and ass-kicker at night. You should write to Hallmark—they’ll be begging for the movie rights.”

Matt smiles a little. “Stick—the first day, we went out for ice cream, at the park. He told me how _lucky_ I was. It felt like a punch in the gut, y’know? I didn’t _feel_ lucky. But he kept telling me, and by the end, I almost believed it.”

“I’m not saying you were lucky, Red. You got dealt a shitty hand, no doubt ‘bout it. But you still came out swinging, and that’s pretty fucking impressive.”

Something about the way Frank says it, so matter-of-factly, makes it feel more real, more believable. It’s not going as far as Stick—he doesn’t have to be grateful, he had bad luck, but he still managed to become someone, and maybe that’s enough.

“Now, I’m gonna ask you a third time, and after that, you can make your own goddamn toast. Do you want some breakfast or not?”

Matt nods and moves to sit up.

“Slowly,” Frank warns, “if you bust your stitches, I’m not gonna redo ‘em.”

“I wouldn’t need you to,” Matt rebuts, though he does slow down a little.

“Yeah, yeah, you got your nurse friend. The pretty one.”

“Is she pretty? I hadn’t noticed,” Matt says innocently.

“Oh, fuck _off_ —you know when a woman’s attractive.”

Matt grins crookedly instead of conceding. “I can tell when _men_ are attractive, too.”

Frank snorts. “Course you can.”

“And I wouldn’t need her help anyway. I’ve been stitching people up since I was eight. Before and after the accident.”

\---  
  


The question weighs on his mind for a long time.

Would he do it again, knowing what would come of it?

Objectively, there is a correct answer—he’d saved a man’s life that day, and that had to be more precious than his own eyesight. Even though the man was old, probably only had a few more years to live, and Matt was young, had decades of sight ahead of him.

Besides, if he hadn’t lost his sight, he wouldn’t have met Stick, wouldn’t have trained, wouldn’t have heard the city’s suffering for years on end before pulling a mask on and doing something about it. He’s helped people, as Daredevil, and that’s worth more than his own blindness, isn’t it? But he’s also hurt people. He’s snapped bones, dislocated joints, knocked people out…

He thinks through the moral calculus, twists himself into a philosophical pretzel, considering Bentham and Mill and utilitarianism and consequentialism and not letting himself think about Socrates or Aristotle.

Caring for his own soul, living a good life for himself, as the old Greeks advocated, that’s not enough. That’s every selfish thought he’s ever had, every time he’s succumbed to temptation, the touch of a lover or silk sheets or organic food or expensive cologne, because the cheap shit bothers his nose. Every single thing that Stick would say makes him soft, makes him weak, makes him inferior.

In his heart, he just wants to see his dad again. He wants to live a normal life. Maybe he would’ve been a fighter like his dad, an old-school boxer, or a plumber, or a doctor. He would’ve met some wonderful normal woman, would’ve fallen in love with her, would’ve married her and had kids instead of having to face the idea of a short, brutal life alone, hurting the people he loves in order to help strangers.

But would he have met Foggy, if he hadn’t saved that old man that day? Would he have met Stick? Elektra? Frank? Claire? He lists off all of the people that he loves in this world, healthy and unhealthy alike, and wonders if he’d trade it for a normal life, normal friends, a family, his father.

\---  
  


They’re staking out one of Fisk’s minions tonight, sitting on the roof, with their coffee and the sandwiches Frank had made in a fit of domesticity.

“That night. When I was bleeding out on your bed.”

“Be more specific,” Frank grunts, “which time?”

Would Matt trade this life away, this life where he has to be more specific, because he’s nearly bled out on Frank’s bed multiple times at this point?

He traces a line over his side, where the scar is, and Frank understands immediately.

“What about it?”

“You asked me if I’d do it all over again.”

“And then you passed out,” Frank says darkly, “even though I told you several times you were _not allowed_ to pass out.”

“Not the point—“

“ _Exactly_ the point—“

“ _Not the point_ ,” Matt reiterates, “that night, when you asked me if I’d do it all over again, if I’d still save the old man. What did you think I would say?”

“That you would,” Frank says promptly.

“What were you _hoping_ I would say?”

“I—look, I just think it’s not the worst thing in the world to be selfish for once in your life. I would have understood—any other person would have chosen to stay back, not get involved.”

“You—you wanted me to be selfish? To let the old man die?”

Frank pauses, inhales and considers how to formulate his thoughts.

“I would’ve liked to see you consider _yourself_ , for once. For _once_ , Matt. You’re not Jesus, you don’t have to bleed for the sins of all mankind.”

Matt ponders the words, turns them over in his mind, analyzing their meaning, what they say about him and about Frank and about how Frank feels about him.

“Wouldn’t have met you,” Matt says quietly.

“Would’ve been happier, though,” Frank answers in the same tone.

“What matters more, doing good or feeling happy?” Matt asks, posing the question to himself more than Frank.

“Why do you gotta do that, Red?” Frank just sounds so tired, it makes something in Matt’s chest jolt, makes him lean forward instinctively, makes him want to check for bullet wounds or lacerations or—

“Do what?”

“Make it a choice. Can’t you do both? You like winning cases, don’t you? You like when your client walks away happy? Isn’t that both?”

“That’s not enough! I can’t,” Matt snaps, “I can’t just put people in danger by caring about them, by letting them care about me—it’s not worth it!”

“Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking _Catholic_ ,” Frank mutters, the tone of his voice making clear that he doesn’t consider it a compliment.

They’re quiet for a moment, and then Frank clears his throat.

“Say—say there was someone who could take care of h—themselves. Say they cared about you. Say you—say, for the sake of argument, that you cared about them, too. What then?”

“That would be perfect,” Matt says with a sigh. “Still a risk, but a manageable one.”

Frank’s heart stutters. He leans forward, stares at the building intently, then turns his head to look at Matt.

“You’re the stupidest man I’ve ever met,” he says quietly, “and I must be even stupider for wantin’ you.”

“You _want_ me?” Matt repeats, proving Frank absolutely right.

Frank shakes his head—not in disagreement so much as pure disbelief.

He shifts a little and tugs at Matt’s belt, drags him in closer.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he mumbles, waiting a moment for Matt to say something before leaning in.

The thing is, Frank burns, too. His flesh, his lips, his words, all of them light Matt up, warm like a fire on a winter’s night. Matt’s world on fire goes quiet for a moment, goes still, his focus entirely locked on the man in front of him.

He opens his eyes and sees the blur of Frank’s shape, the deep red flames, almost black, feels the cold as Frank pulls back, lets the air flood in between them.

“I want you,” Frank repeats. “I want you to be happy, Matty. With someone. Me, ideally. And maybe that’s being selfish—according to your logic, I should want you as far away from me as possible.”

“No,” Matt bursts out, because having his words turned on him like this is so brutally unfair and the idea of Frank leaving is _unimaginable_. He reaches out, finds Frank, still sitting there, grips his arms so he can’t leave. “ _No_ —“

“But I can be selfish enough for both of us,” Frank says quietly, “I can carry that, I don’ mind.”

Matt leans in and yanks him forward far too hard, the impact of their lips almost knocking the air out of his lungs.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ leave,” he hisses against Frank’s mouth. “ _Everyone_ —Frank, don’t you dare.”

Frank smiles slightly, pulls away but not by much. He glances at the building again.

“It’s been quiet for awhile, hasn’t it?” he asks, the implication heavy in his voice.

Matt nods and stands, offering Frank a hand to help him up. The heat of it burns through his gloves, warms his skin pleasantly.

**Author's Note:**

> I had like three different ideas for fire, the other two of which were largely focused on Frank and Matt individually and less on their relationship. I might end up writing those anyway because why not, but I wanted to write this one first!
> 
> I'm not quite happy with the ending--Matt's ethical dilemma is harder to resolve than with a kiss (even from someone as handsome as Jon Bernthal). 
> 
> I'm also not sure if I hit or miss with the burning imagery... let me know what you thought!
> 
> The title is a weak description of Matt, as someone who had both the physical sensation of burning during the accident and was also burned by his relationship with Elektra, and of Frank, who set his family's house on fire. It's late and I'm tired and can't figure out something better (if you have ideas for better titles, please tell me!)


End file.
